A Question of Blood (2003) Read Online Free PDF Page A

doze, waking with a sudden feeling of terror, leaping to her feet, adrenaline surging through her. She’d crawled on hands and knees from her bedroom, believing that if she got to her feet, she would die. Eventually it passed, and she used her hands on the hallway wall as she rose up from the floor. She walked slowly back to bed and lay down on her side, curled into a ball.
    More common than you might think, her doctor would eventually tell her, after the second attack.
    Between times, Martin Fairstone made a complaint of harassment, dropping it eventually. And he’d also kept on calling. She’d tried to keep it from Rebus, didn’t want to know what he meant by “fireworks” . . .
 
    The CID office was dead. People were out on calls, or busy in court. It seemed you could spend half your life waiting to give evidence, only for the case to collapse or the accused to make a change of plea. Sometimes a juror went AWOL, or someone crucial was sick. Time seeped away, and at the end of it all the verdict was “not guilty.” Even when found guilty, it might be a question of a fine or suspended sentence. The prisons were full and seen more than ever as a last resort. Siobhan didn’t think she was growing cynical, just realistic. There’d been criticism recently that Edinburgh had more traffic wardens than cops. When something like South Queensferry came up, it stretched things tighter. Holidays, sick leave, paperwork, and court . . . and not nearly enough hours in any given day. Siobhan was aware that there was a backlog on her desk. Because of Fairstone, her work had been suffering. She could still feel his presence. If a phone rang, she would freeze, and a couple of times she caught herself heading for the window, to check if his car was out there. She knew she was being irrational, but couldn’t help it. Knew, too, that it wasn’t the kind of thing she could talk to someone about . . . not without seeming weak.
    The phone was ringing now. Not on her own desk, but on Rebus’s. If no one answered, the switchboard might try another extension. She crossed the floor, willing the sound to stop. It did so only when she picked up the receiver.
    “Hello?”
    “Who’s that?” A male voice. Brisk, businesslike.
    “DS Clarke.”
    “Hiya, Shiv. It’s Bobby Hogan here.” Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan. She’d asked him before not to call her Shiv. A lot of people tried it. Siobhan, pronounced “Shi-vawn,” shortened to Shiv. When people wrote her name down, it turned into all sorts of erroneous spellings. She remembered that Fairstone had called her Shiv a few times, attempting familiarity. She hated it and knew she should correct Hogan, but she didn’t.
    “Keeping busy?” she asked instead.
    “You know I’m handling Port Edgar?” He broke off. ’Course you do, stupid question.”
    “You come over well on TV, Bobby.”
    “I’m always open to flattery, Shiv, and the answer is ‘no.’”
    She couldn’t help smiling. “I’m not exactly snowed under here,” she lied, glancing across at the folders on her desk.
    “If I need an extra pair of hands, I’ll let you know. Is John around?”
    “Mr. Popular? He’s taken a sickie. What do you want him for?”
    “Is he at home?”
    “I can probably get a message to him.” She was intrigued now. There was some urgency in Hogan’s voice.
    “You know where he is?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where?”
    “You never answered my question: what do you want him for?”
    Hogan gave a long sigh. “Because I need that other pair of hands,” he told her.
    “And only his will do?”
    “So far as I know.”
    “I’m suitably crushed.”
    He ignored her tone. “How soon can you let him know?”
    “He might not be well enough to help.”
    “If he’s anywhere short of an iron lung, I’ll take him.”
    She rested her weight against Rebus’s desk. “What’s going on?”
    “Just get him to call me, eh?”
    “Are you at the school?”
    “Best if he tries my mobile. Bye,